The Brooklyn Rail

For the past twenty-five years or so, my partner, David Zaza, and I have designed, with our colleagues at McCall Associates, most of the books, posters, and printed announcements that have been made for Richard Serra. Because we are still at it—we are currently working on the catalogue raisonné of his sculpture—we don’t really speak of what this relationship has meant to us. Rather, we talk about what it is. Richard would have appreciated that distinction, I think, as he was never maudlin or sentimental.

He was fiercely loyal though, asserting to representatives of museums and galleries and publishers that we would be making his books for him, sometimes before we had met them ourselves. We traveled to and for and with Richard, to Bilbao and Houston, to San Francisco and Doha, to his homes in Orient and Inverness. And we frequently spent days or weeks at a time in Tribeca, hashing out designs with him and his wife, Clara, and his studio director, Trina. 

These work sessions became so natural they were almost like family dinners. Richard would make little drawings of us that he sometimes let us keep, and we, in turn, took dozens of photos of him. Mostly we were engaged and energized, but if we were sometimes tired or grouchy or sad we only ever brought along our genuine selves. Richard certainly appreciated that. Bullshit was the only thing not allowed at the Serras’ table. There can be no doubt, however, he was happiest when we arrived ready for a verbal joust. Quickness of mind was a virtue at these get-togethers and, frankly, I’m glad there were two of us to keep up with him. 

One morning—way back in 2006—Richard was particularly piqued because someone had asked him the day before, “what does your work mean?” He was incredulous, and he kept saying over and over to us, but also to himself, “It means what it is!” “It means what it is!” Weight, volume, mass, etc. Those were his concerns, and they alone imparted meaning.

The next day, by coincidence, a book we had designed for a group show featuring one of his works arrived in the mail. It had a particularly complicated binding technique that purposefully rendered certain pages virtually inaccessible. Holding the book, he was again incredulous, this time asking, “What does it mean?” He pressed me until I mumbled something unpracticed and inarticulate about its modernist understructure. “Bullshit!” he cackled good-naturedly before letting me off the hook. 

On my way home that day, steps from the subway entrance, I stopped in my sleeves, cast my eyes to my chin, and shook my head. “Dammit,” I said to myself, “It means what it is.” The perfect riposte had arrived a few hours too late. He would have laughed with delight if I had managed to throw that one back at him.

 

I’m betting “It means what it is” became one of Richard’s favorite aphorisms. Hell, as far as I know, he coined it. But I must admit I still don’t know its precise meaning. It would probably take a phalanx of philosophers and grammarians a decade to successfully parse those five little words. And I’m not even sure they’d ever really get to the heart of the matter. After all, artists have always had a slippery relationship with it, the most malleable of pronouns. Frank Capra and Jimmy Stewart convinced several generations of Americans it’s a wonderful life, despite at least some evidence to the contrary. David Byrne knows what it is, but doesn’t know what it looks like, except, of course, when he knows what it looks like, but doesn’t know her name. Bob Dylan says he’ll keep it with his, though he doesn’t indicate exactly what it is he’ll be keeping. Michael Jackson says to beat it, and Devo says to whip it. The Eagles are forever taking it to the limit, one more time. Oh, and I would be remiss if I didn’t call to your mind Cousin Itt. Charles Addams and Co. were way ahead of the curve with that little creature.

My point here isn’t to suggest that Richard should have seen his work as anything other than the sum of its material parts if he didn’t want to. It's only that we, as viewers, are at once separate from it and joined to it. When Marvin Gaye sings Let’s Get It On, we get it on too, vicariously anyway. Putting on that track, our longest workdays get a little bit shorter, and our most boring drives become a little bit more fun. When we approach or enter or circle or exit one of Richard’s pieces, we find ourselves a little bit changed. What can be more meaningful than that?

As I mentioned at the start, David and I make books for Richard. And because bookmakers’ concerns are mostly material, I suppose we can say that our work for and with him means what it is. But, of course, two opposing propositions can both be true, so it also means, it also still is, so very much more.